People have described me as eclectic. I assume it’s true based on the variety of activities I pursue and my ability to become interested in almost any subject. If I can find an entry point into it, it becomes mine. I explore it, dig around for a while, get good and messy. I may end up not liking the subject or the activity—cough, cough, ceramics—but I’ve engaged it fully. I made a plan, i.e., a process. I studied the thing, did the thing, laid claim to it for a time. I can continue with it, or I can move onto a new activity or subject that doesn’t leave me in fits of frustration.
I wouldn’t get very far without processes. They are necessary to my life. There’s a process for changing the reservoir on my insulin pump. It’s a bossy thing with all its instructions and vibrations and alarms. There’s a process for travel; I always have a list so that I don’t forget a necessary power cord or medicine. There’s a process for big projects, and there’s a process for little ones, like this blog post: I sit in the chair and write. It’s a little more detailed than that, but it’s the general gist for getting the first draft onto the page. I sit. I write. I avoid distractions.
Process.
It will always be necessary. It’s the only way to accomplish small and great things. It’s also the only way to accomplish the not-so-great things, the failures. The lessons learned with the successes and the misses pay off with the next project, activity, or subject and the next. Process is intimately tied with both; it ensures I don’t get too big for my britches, and it guarantees I dust myself off and try again.